


Tell Me I'm Wrong

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Fix-It, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV John Watson, Pining John, Prison Cell, Sick Sherlock, Stag Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2736341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's stag night. What happened in that prison cell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me I'm Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and left comments and/or kudos! It means so much to me :)

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“-hmwha? John-“

 

“Just say it, Sherlock. Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“John.”

 

“Just. Say it.”

 

“Fine. You- you’re wrong.”

 

John shifted his legs out in front of him. The concrete floor of the cell was uncomfortable, to say the least. After spending the end of their evening in the warm bubble of 221B and then briefly within the dead ghost man’s flat, now John felt cold, tired and exposed.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the narrow bench, his face burrowed in his hands. He suddenly looked up.

 

“What- wrong about?” Sherlock’s eyes tried to narrow.

 

“S’- Well. Never mind.” John crossed his legs and stared at the shadows underneath the bench, a cool darkness hidden from the light streaming in from the hallway.

 

John wanted to crawl into that darkness and sleep for a million years.

 

“Ugh. Shouldn’t ‘ave thought s’was a good idea. Alcohol’s s’waste of time.” Sherlock slurred. He groaned and moved to lie down on the thin mattress, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

 

John stole a glance at Sherlock’s profile. His expression was carefully closed, not revealing anything.

 

 _Oh god, why did I do it?_ John thought. _Why did I… touch him? And **there** , of all places? He’ll know. He must know._

 

_Stupid stupid stupid._

_And wrong. I’m wrong._

 

*****

 

John knew that the stag night would be difficult. He tried to convince himself, every time he thought about it, that it would be difficult because he was still raw about seeing Sherlock, or because he was still incredibly angry, or because he was going to miss Mary too much and end up wishing he hadn’t gone at all.

 

The truth was: John was worried that he wouldn’t know how to deal with himself if he suddenly realised he wasn’t actually that angry.

 

The truth was: John thought about the stag night – about spending time alone with Sherlock – every day.

 

Hell, the truth was: John thought about Sherlock every day.

 

Sherlock had suggested they do a pub crawl, just the two of them. Surely, John thought, he would be able to put _It_ all aside and just enjoy the evening.

 

Two friends. Best mates. Drinking beer. Rehashing shared memories and stories of old adventures.

 

Skimming over the bad bits and laughing about the good.

 

Pretending.

 

Somehow, John knew it would be nothing like that.

 

*****

 

The clock in the hallway read 2:35 am. They hadn’t spoken to each other in a few hours.

 

Eventually Sherlock frowned and sat up.

 

“John. I think- I think I might be sick again.“

 

Scrambling to his feet, John scanned the pitiful cell for anything that he could use. Obviously, there was nothing.

 

“Sorry, Sherlock. I don’t think there’s anything-“ John was interrupted by the sound of Sherlock gagging. He stood across from him awkwardly. “I could get someone to take you to the loo. Should’ve got you some water or something. Or- “

 

“No. I'm. Fine.” Sherlock swallowed fiercely between each word. His nose wrinkled into that familiar crease between his eyebrows. He sighed. “Sorry that I-“

 

“I love you.” John said.

 

A beat of silence.

 

Sherlock met his eyes.

 

“What.” His voice was dangerously quiet.

 

  
John felt helpless, like he’d been swept under a wave he’d been trying to swim over for years.

 

He’d said _it_. He’d just _said_ it.

 

 _My god, I am insane_ , he thought.

 

“I love you. I’m- I’ve loved you- “ He stopped. What was he doing?! He was definitely insane.

 

“John. Please. “ Sherlock didn’t blink. His mouth was closed tight.

 

But his eyes…

 

Something in his eyes made John keep going, the words tumbling out of him before he could put them into their right places.

 

“No. Wait. Stop. Just wait. I- I have to tell you this. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for years now. I have to tell you this now or I’ll never be able to… say it again. I- that’s why I wanted you to tell me I’m wrong, because, well, I thought if I heard you tell me I was wrong… I mean, there’s Mary now, and this isn’t what I thought would happen but then you jumped…and I just didn’t know, Sherlock, I didn’t ever know how to… but _for years_ I’ve felt like- and ever since I handed Irene Adler’s camera phone to you in the kitchen, when you looked me right in the eyes… and I thought you loved her, I just stood there by the stairs and thought that you wanted her and I realised that- “

 

“I wanted you.”

 

Now it was John’s turn to close his mouth.

 

“I wanted you, John.”

 

Sherlock’s voice was rough and still dangerously quiet. John felt his heart push its way out of his chest, down into his stomach.

 

It was silent between them, their eyes locked, their breathing flowing into the shared space between their bodies.

 

John breathed in, Sherlock breathed out. Sherlock breathed in, John breathed out.

 

“You did. You wanted me.” John tried to make it sound like a question.

 

“I _want_.” Sherlock corrected. “You.”

 

A sergeant walked past, leading a man in handcuffs down to a cell at the far end of the hallway.

 

The distinct _clank_ of the metal door punctuated John’s mouth finding Sherlock’s in the dim light.

 

*****

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

John felt like his body was possibly humming.

 

 _What just…?_ He thought. Sherlock seemed to be the same as he was a moment before. He didn’t get up and stalk out of the flat. He didn’t push John away in disgust.

 

He hadn't done, well, anything. Right?

 

_Was Sherlock always this… lovely? Had he always looked like this? All this time?_

 

 _Move on, John, move on_ , he thought.

 

All he could think of was how warm Sherlock’s knee had felt under his hand.

 

 _Pretend, pretend, pretend_ , he thought. _Just keep going. He’s your best friend. Don’t._

 

And then Tessa interrupted with her story of dating a ghost, and they left the flat so Sherlock could investigate, and Sherlock had gotten sick all over the rug, and eventually they were hauled off to spend the night in jail (again).

 

And John thought:

 

 _Sod it all. I love him_.

 

*****

 

Time seemed to rush back slowly, somehow. They weren’t drunk anymore.

 

John was aware of Sherlock’s right hand on his left hip, his left hand curled around the back of John’s head. Fingers in his hair. Tenderly protecting him from hitting his head against the wall.

 

 _When had Sherlock stood up?_ John thought. He felt cool tile pressing into his back through the fabric of his jacket. _When did he -_

“I do too, you know.” Sherlock mumbled, breaking the seal of his lips against John’s neck.

 

“Hmm.” John had never felt like this. Never felt anything before _this_.

 

“Why do you think I jumped, John? Why do you think I came back to you?”

 

John stared stupidly into Sherlock’s impossibly dark eyes.

 

“Because you had to- Moriarty.” He felt like a child.

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. Well, yes. But, no, John.”

 

“No.”

 

 _Okay, maybe we are still a little drunk_ , John thought.

 

“I jumped because I loved you. And I wanted you.” He paused. “And I was afraid.”

 

Sherlock stepped back a step, opening up a distance between their bodies. John felt like he was drowning.

 

He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth. Somehow, he knew he needed to see him say it.

 

John swallowed.

 

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“You’re not wrong.”

 

“Tell me this is wrong.”

 

“This is not wrong.”

 

“Tell me- tell me- “

 

Sherlock cut him off with another kiss.

 

And John knew why Sherlock had come back.

 

 


End file.
